


Six Things Zoe Learned From Jamie

by kathkin



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, War Games feelings, this was gonna be a five things fic but it grew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Jamie was giving her that look which said 'You poor soul, is this not screamingly obvious' and being on the receiving end of it for a change was giving her a nasty sinking feeling in her stomach.</i> Things Jamie taught Zoe, or how Zoe learned that she doesn't always have to know everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Things Zoe Learned From Jamie

_1\. When walking in the woods, always look where you’re going (and, incidentally, to always respect superior knowledge and experience even when it comes from a less than likely source)._

The great outdoors was proving to be _profoundly_ unfair. Zoe had spent most of her childhood cooped up in schools and academies and aboard space stations, being told that outside was a dirty and unsanitary and generally unpleasant place to be, and so, naturally, she’d set out that morning determined to enjoy herself.

The Doctor had called it ‘going on a ramble’. She called it ‘stomping about in ankle-deep mud all morning’ – or alternatively, ‘getting thoroughly lost in the woods’. They weren’t even very nice woods. They were grey and wet and overhung with mist. The rain, at least, had stopped, but it had left behind a thick blanket of mud that she just wasn’t dressed for.

Every so often, her foot would stick fast and she’d have to heave herself out with a nasty wet sucking. The seventh or eighth time it happened, the mud held like glue. She tugged again. Her foot slipped out of her shoe altogether and hung precariously over the mire, clad only in a pink sock that she _desperately_ didn’t want to ruin. “Eurgh.”

Jamie, up ahead, paused in his ramblings about how he was _sure_ he could navigate them back to the TARDIS by looking at the sun. At the sight of her swaying on one leg, he jogged back to hold her upright. “You’re really not wearing the right shoes, ye ken.”

“It’s too late now, isn’t it?” said Zoe hotly. She pulled her shoe from the mud and leaned on Jamie to finagle it back onto her foot.

“I’m sure we’re goin’ the right way,” he said, squinting up at the sun. “It’s well past noon.”

“I can see that.” She tightened her laces and reluctantly let her foot fall back into the mud. Jamie took a few steps on. She didn’t follow. “I wonder if we might be better off waiting here for the Doctor to find us.”

The Doctor had wandered off an hour or more ago to look at an interesting bird’s nest or something. They hadn’t seen a trace of him since. Which meant, Zoe felt, that he was the lost one, not them, but she’d rather wait for him with her tail between her legs than spend any longer wandering those woods.

“Och, don’t be silly.” Jamie pointed onwards. “It’s this way, I tell you.”

“We could be going in circles for all we know,” said Zoe.

“I tell you, I know what I’m doing,” said Jamie. “You could be a wee bit more help, you know. I thought you were supposed to be good at this?”

Zoe glowered, growing hot under the collar, which at least made a change from cold and wet. She was supposed to be good at this. She had an excellent sense of direction when she was navigating an environment with some logic to it. She had the route they’d taken from the TARDIS perfect in her memory, but that was no good when the landscape was a featureless mass of trees and mud and bushes. “These trees are all the same,” she said lamely.

Jamie looked about himself. “No. We came this way before.”

“How can you _tell_?”

“It’s easy when you know what to look for.” His tone was only mildly condescending, but still it made Zoe bristle.

There were times when having a drive to be the best at everything was downright illogical. Of _course_ Jamie was better at finding his way around in the woods. He’d probably grown up in wet, miserable forests like this one. He was in his element and she was out of hers and she knew she ought to meekly defer, but she was too wet and cold and infuriated to do anything other than snap at him –

“Oh, you can stow it, Jamie.”

– and storm off in a fit of pique. She clenched her hands into fists and marched squelchily away through the trees, slantwise to the route he’d been taking. He called after her, but she didn’t bother to listen till it was too late.

“Och, watch your –”

The ground gave way beneath her. She was walking, and then without warning she was falling into incomprehensibly empty space. 

She let out a frankly embarrassing squeal of alarm before her landing was broken by soft, soggy ground. She was lying winded at the bottom of a muddy hole, maybe ten feet deep, surrounded by the broken remains of the sticks and dry moss and leaves that had been used to conceal it. 

Above her, she heard footsteps. Jamie popped into view, leaning over to peer down at her. “Watch your step,” he finished, accentuating his words with a smug air.

Zoe glowered up at him. “I heard you the first time.”

“Aye, for all the good it did you,” he said. She could see him struggling not to laugh. She supposed, dismally, that it must have looked rather funny. She’d laugh about it later, probably. When she wasn’t sitting at the bottom of the hole. At least she was in one piece. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride.” And a sore spot on her elbow, which she rubbed as she looked about herself. The sides were weathered, but tidy. It was clearly a hole someone had dug for some purpose – and then carefully disguised as part of the forest floor. She thought, sourly, that if this was someone’s idea of a joke it was a very poor one. That was her best guess, ‘practical joke’, and it was a flimsy guess. “What _is_ this, anyway?”

“It’s a pit,” Jamie called.

“I can see _that_ ,” Zoe snapped back.

“No, I mean,” said Jamie, “it’s a game pit. For trapping animals.” He stepped back, half out of view, surveying the woods. “I suppose that means there’s people around.”

“Will you stop theorising and help me out?” Zoe levered herself to her feet, wiping her muddy hands on her trousers.

“Oh, aye,” said Jamie. “Hang on a moment. I’ll just try and find a –” His voice faded as he wandered away in search of some implement with which to help her.

He came back with what was probably the longest stick he could find. “Try and get a hold of this,” he said, lowering it down to her.

It wasn’t long enough, and probably too damp to support her weight besides, but she made a valiant series of grabs for it while Jamie dangled it lower and lower, edging closer and closer to the slippery rim of the game pit. “Hang on,” he said after a few attempts. He glanced over his shoulder, reached back, and took ahold of something – probably a tree branch – to anchor himself, leaning out over the pit, one foot half over the edge.

The end of the stick was tantalisingly close. Zoe strained to reach for it. She was so close to freedom – but just as her fingers brushed damp wood, disaster struck.

Somewhere above her, she heard a _creak_ and a _snap_ of wood breaking, and Jamie’s head swung about. She heard him say, “oh no,” in a quiet voice. Then, before either of them could react, there was a second, louder _snap_ , and he fell.

He lost his footing in the mud and tumbled headlong into the game pit with a yelp, landing bodily on top of her, sending her to the muddy ground. She lay winded and squirming. “Get off!”

“Ow,” he said, dragging himself off her. “ _Ow_. Are you _made_ of elbows?”

“You’re _squashing_ me!”

After an agonisingly awkward few seconds, they managed to disentangle themselves and stand upright, both bruised and covered in mud. They surveyed the situation. “Y’know,” said Jamie after a moment, “it looks a fair bit deeper from down here.”

“Any ideas?” said Zoe.

“C’mere and I’ll boost you,” he said.

“And then what?” said Zoe. “How are _you_ going to get out?”

It was clear Jamie hadn’t thought of that. He shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “You can go and find the Doctor?”

“And leave you here alone?”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

Zoe considered, and shrugged. She let him heft her up and stood with her muddy, unsuitable shoes dirtying his shoulders. By all rights it _should_ have worked. She could reach the edge of the hole alright, but the wet mud made it impossible to get any purchase. She scrabbled and clawed at it while Jamie staggered beneath her until, with a grim sense of inevitability, they unbalanced themselves and fell in a heap for the second time in as many minutes.

Her best plan, attempting to dig themselves some hand and footholds, fell victim to the same slippery mishap. After a pathetic few minutes of slipping and sliding around, they were both filthy and ready to give up. Zoe had mud slathered all down her front and mud under her fingernails. She wanted a shower, _now_ , but the only place she was likely to get one was the TARDIS, which they couldn’t find. They were miles away from whatever civilisation existed in this time period and at the bottom of a hole besides.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” she said, dismal.

“It was _your_ plan,” Jamie pointed out.

Zoe rolled her eyes and took out her frustration by snatching a handful of mud from the side of the pit and smearing it across his face. He yelped, swatting her hand away, and glowered at her from beneath the mud. “What was _that_ for?” Zoe shrugged. “Och, well if you want it _that_ way –” He thrust a fistful of mud into her face before she had time to dodge. She squealed and squirmed, shoving him back into the wall.

Jamie wiped the worst of the mud off his face and began to laugh. “It’s not funny,” said Zoe.

“Aye, it’s not,” Jamie said, momentarily sobering. He collapsed into giggles again. “It’s a bit funny.”

His laughter proved infectious. Zoe sagged against the side of the hole, shoulders shaking in mirth, fighting for composure. Every time she managed to stop laughing she’d catch Jamie’s eye and the whole mess would seem unbearably funny again. “Alright,” she said, calming herself. “Alright. Time for plan C.”

“What’s plan C?” said Jamie, puzzled.

Zoe cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted in the vague direction of the heavens. “Doctor! Help!” She paused for a moment. There was no response but for a distant bird flapping its wings in the bushes. “Doctoooor! Help!”

Jamie joined in. “DOCTOR! Help! We’re stuck!” He yelled in a roar that made her jump.

“Goodness, your voice doesn’t half carry,” she said.

“I’m a piper. It’s in my blood,” he said, which Zoe was fairly – well, completely – sure wasn’t how genetics worked, but she didn’t argue. She went back to shouting for help.

They hollered and shouted till they were breathless, then stood listening to the resulting silence. “Mibbe that did it.”

“Or maybe he’s nowhere near us,” said Zoe. “Or something’s happened. Or –”

“Och, look on the bright side,” said Jamie. Apparently content to settle in for the long haul, he settled himself on the ground, wrapping his jacket around himself against the cold mud. “He’ll find us.” He considered for a moment. “He’ll most likely find us.”

“I wish I had your optimism.” Zoe sat down beside him, trying to ignore the way the mud squelched around her behind. Jamie grunted in response.

They sat there in silence, squinting up at the puddle of sky above them, for long minutes. It would grow dark soon, Zoe thought, and then where would they be? Stuck at the bottom of a hole all night, that was where.

A thought crossed her mind, and she put voice to it, mainly to distract herself. “How did you know this pit was here?”

“Eh?” said Jamie.

“You tried to warn me. How did you know?”

“Oh, that.” Jamie tilted his head back, staring up the sky. “I’ve helped dig these,” he said as if that explained everything, which she supposed it did.

“Oh,” she said. She pondered the matter a little further. “Say you found a person in one, instead of an animal. What would you do?”

“I dinnae ken,” said Jamie after a moment’s thought. “I suppose it would depend who it was.”

“A pair of total strangers?”

“Not a clue,” said Jamie. “Why’d you ask?”

“I was just thinking that whoever dug his pit might find us before the Doctor does.”

Jamie sucked in a sharp, foreboding breath. “Aye, well, we’ll just have to hope they’re friendly.” 

Not that he sounded very optimistic about it. Silence descended over them again, the steady kind of silence which came when there was nothing to do but wait for the inevitable, whatever it might be. After a while, Zoe rested her head upon his shoulder.

*

Cold, dawn light was filling the pit when she woke. But it wasn’t the light that had woken her, she realised as she blinked sleep out of her eyes. No, it had been something else; a noise, she thought, somewhere nearby. She turned her still groggy gaze upwards.

Ranked around the pit was half a dozen or so men, with unkempt hair, leather kilts – and half a dozen fiendishly sharp spears pointed in their direction. Zoe looked up at them, aghast, taking in the hard stares, the flint points that were beginning to glitter in the morning light. Without daring to take her eyes off them, she nudged Jamie. “Jamie,” she hissed. “Jamie, wake up.”

“Mmph?” said Jamie. He blinked and squinted, and, following her nod, turned his gaze upwards. His eyes widened.

After a further silent moment, during which Zoe surmised that their captors were probably about as confused at finding her and Jamie in their game pit as they were at finding themselves there, Jamie said, “morning, lads. Any chance of a hand out?”

The hunters exchanged a silent glance. Then one of them spoke.

 

_2\. How to hold her drink (and when to swallow her pride)._

If there was one trait in Jamie that Zoe truly admired and envied, it was his easy way with people.

Theoretically, they were closer to her time than his, but not by much. Practically speaking, going by the levels of dirt, noise and local colour, Jamie was much more at home than she was. Even if he wasn’t, when it came to gathering information by making conversation, she’d decided that it was better to let Jamie take the lead.

Though she couldn’t help but wonder if his insistence on finding the nearest drinking establishment was less of an effective and honed strategy and more of an excuse to spend an afternoon drinking. Not that it _wasn’t_ honed. He appeared to have got it down to a fine art. They’d been in the spaceport bar less than ten minutes and already he’d made friends with a group of tipsy salvagers who were more than happy to foot the bill.

The stuff they were drinking smelled like solvents and tasted like it had been stewing in a latrine for a month – which it probably had, in an establishment like this – but Zoe downed hers just like Jamie and the salvagers, suppressing the resulting shudder. What was it the Doctor always said? _When in Rome._

Everything was going well enough and they were learning all sorts of interesting titbits about the recent rash of disappearances and how it was almost certainly nothing to worry about, people were always moving on in a place like this – until they bought a second round. 

Zoe was in the act of taking her glass off the tray when Jamie looked at her and said, “be careful with that stuff. You’re just a wee lassie.”

At which point she ought to have kept to her original plan, which was to drink this one more slowly and refuse any further rounds – but without realising it she’d already got tipsy. Her decision making skills weren’t quite one hundred per cent. If she’d been sober she’d have realised that he wasn’t being patronising – or wasn’t _just_ being patronising – he was right that she was very small _and_ hadn’t drunk hard liquor before. But she wasn’t quite sober, and instead she took it as a challenge.

She glowered at him and downed the second shot. “Suit yourself,” Jamie said with a roll of his eyes, which naturally only made her burn harder.

Two or three hours later – she’d lost track of time – she was hunched over in the dirty alley behind the bar, Jamie rubbing her back and making soothing sounds while she lost her lunch, and most likely also her breakfast.

“Hush, now,” Jamie was saying. Zoe whimpered. “You cannae say I didn’t tell you so.”

That was the third time he’d reminded her of that fact – he was more than a little drunk himself – but the first time she’d been in a position to respond. Her stomach seemed to have settled slightly, at least for long enough for her to sit back on her heels and choke out, “I hate you.”

“Och, you don’t mean that.”

“I hate you. I hate everyone. I hate everything and everyone in the universe.” Her stomach rolled. She gagged, lurching forward, choking and spitting out bile. There wasn’t much left for her to throw up. 

Jamie was chuckling at her misfortune. She aimed a kick, blindly, at his leg, and mostly missed. “This is all your fault,” she spat.

“I don’t see how it’s my fault you cannae hold your drink,” he said, continuing to be absolutely right, in a drunk, patronising sort of way.

Zoe gagged once more, whimpered, and sat back upon her heels. “I think I’m done,” she said, her voice weak and morose. She heard Jamie shift behind her.

“Here,” he said, passing her a hankie. “Get yourself cleaned up.” She mumbled a thank-you and began to wipe her mouth.

A voice called from the end of the alleyway. “Jamie? Zoe?”

“Back here!” Jamie called. His hand was still resting lightly on Zoe’s back. It slipped away when she twisted around to see the Doctor, trotting around a stack of discarded packing crates to find them.

“Good gracious,” he said. “Is everything alright?”

“Zoe overdid it.” In response to the Doctor’s quizzical raised eyebrow, he explained, “we were in the bar.”

As the Doctor took in the situation, Zoe looked at the floor, shame-faced. “Oh, you silly girl,” he exclaimed. “This isn’t like you at all.”

“It was Jamie’s fault!” Zoe insisted. She was determined to hold to that excuse, flimsy as it was.

“It wasnae my fault,” said Jamie. “I _told_ her to go easy. I did.” 

The Doctor took a closer look at Jamie, taking in his demeanour, and scowled. “When I said go and making conversation with the locals, I did not mean get drunk with them,” he said stiffly.

“Aye, aye, we made plenty of conversation,” said Jamie. “The people here are very friendly.” He clambered to his feet and hauled Zoe upright. “C’mon, you.”

“I’ll never do it again,” Zoe said weakly. “I promise. I’ve learned my lesson.” Jamie was chuckling again. She threw him a sour look.

The Doctor patted her shoulder and began to lead her out of the alleyway. “Well, you can sleep it off back in the TARDIS,” he said. “Both of you. We’ll talk things over in the morning.”

 

_3\. What people did before indoor plumbing (and yes, it’s something disgusting.)_

Zoe was sitting upon the high bed, drumming her toes against the floor. Her room in the bed and breakfast was pokey, with peeling wallpaper and a frankly hideous painting of a bowl of fruit upon the wall, but she was willing to put up with that. She’d slept in smaller and uglier. And anyway, the last thing she wanted to do was complain. It had been so nice of Mrs Saunders to let them stay free of charge. So she would sit, and stew.

After she’d been stewing for a while, the landing floor creaked. Jamie poked his head in and knocked softly on the half open door. “Evenin’,” he said. “You settled in alright?”

“Fine, fine.” Zoe hopped up off the bed. Jamie wandered in to join her, even though she hadn’t said come in.

“You sure?” said Jamie. “You seem a bit –” He motioned vaguely in her direction, probably trying to convey something along the lines of _on edge_ or _anxious_.

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just that –” She was determined not to complain – but it was only Jamie, and besides, she had to vent to _someone_. She darted over to the door, just in case Mrs Saunders was lurking out on the landing, and closed it quietly. “The toilets here are outside,” she hissed. “They’re right at the bottom of the garden! It’s so – so _impractical_. Is that normal for this time? Because – because –” She trailed off. Jamie was giving her a withering look, and she couldn’t really complain because it was exactly the kind of look she’d give him when, say, he couldn’t make sense of how to work a touch-screen computer or thought that holograms were some sort of magic spell. _You poor soul, is this not screamingly obvious_ , it said, and being on the receiving end of it for a change was giving her a nasty sinking feeling in her stomach.

He shrugged. “Aye, so?”

“So,” said Zoe. “What are you supposed to do if it’s raining? Or the middle of the night?”

“Oh, aye,” said Jamie, apparently only just registering that his input might be helpful. He shifted and knelt down, one pressing one hand to the mattress as he groped beneath the bed. “There should be a – here.” He straightened up, holding in his hand a sort of round dish made of polished white china. 

Zoe looked at it blankly, eyes flicking from it to Jamie’s earnest face. “What’s that?”

“It’s a pot.”

“I can see _that_. What’s it for?”

“Och, you know,” said Jamie, even though she didn’t. He’d obviously expected her to understand much faster, and now he was stuck holding the thing awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Then – finally – it clicked. “Oh,” said Zoe, “you mean – that’s _disgusting_. I’m not doing _that_.”

“You can go out in the dark and the cold, if you’d rather,” said Jamie.

“I would rather!” Zoe protested. “It’s not sanitary.”

“Well, you wash it afterwards,” said Jamie, still with an air of one who thought this was screamingly obvious and that Zoe was the silly one for not understanding. He put the pot back on the floor and kicked it absently under the bed.

“Eurgh,” said Zoe. “What, right afterwards?”

“In the morning,” said Jamie.

It just got worse and worse. “That’s downright uncivilised,” she said hotly.

Jamie folded his arms and fixed her with a hard stare. “It’s what _I_ grew up with,” he said, everything from the set of his shoulders to the look in his eye outright _daring_ her to call him uncivilised.

Granted, it had been on the tip of her tongue to do just that. “Well, fine,” she said, floundering. “It’s still disgusting, though.”

“Och,” he unfolded his arms, “what did you _think_ people did before indoor plumbing?”

That very nearly stumped her. “I never really thought about it,” she confessed. Though if she had, she probably would have supposed it was something disgusting.

“Well, then, you learned something today, didn’t you,” he said. “It’s not so bad. Promise.” Zoe stared at him, her face, she was sure, a picture of disgust. “Och, fine,” he said, moving towards the door. “Have it your way. Dinner’s in half an hour.” He sloped out of the room, letting the door click softly closed behind himself.

 

_4\. Folklore can be more informative than you might expect (and sometimes you should trust hunches)._

The woods were almost pitch black. She’d had a torch, but she’d dropped it and hadn’t dared go back for it, with that – that _thing_ chasing her. She didn’t even dare look back. She ran on blindly, not sure if the noises crashing in the undergrowth behind her were Jamie, or if it had got him already –

With a dizzy jolt, the woods ended. She stumbled out into open space, slipped and slithered down a slick, muddy bank, and managed to halt herself, gasping. She could hear water rushing and just barely make out the stream or river that barred her way. 

A few seconds later, before she’d had time to fully take in her predicament, let alone formulate a plan, Jamie crashed out of the woods behind her. He skidded down the bank, only held back from falling into the water by her frantic hand upon his elbow. He yelped aloud. “Och, no.”

He’d kept hold of his torch, and by its flickering light she could see the other bank, ten, twenty feet away. Zoe cast about, chose a direction – left, left looked like smoother going – and made to run. 

Jamie grabbed her arm, holding her back. “No, don’t,” he said.

“Are you out of your mind?” She could hear it getting closer, branches breaking, feet whispering upon the ground.

He shook his head. He’d had an idea. She could see him thinking – she could always tell when Jamie was thinking. You could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “The river,” he said, nodding at the other bank. “We’ve got to cross the river.” He tugged upon her arm, dragging her into the river, paddling ankle-deep.

She resisted. “We won’t make it,” she hissed, “you don’t even know how _deep_ it is –”

“It’s our best chance,” he insisted. He tugged sharply on her arm. “Come _on_.”

They splashed out into the water. It never grew more than chest-deep, but it was cold, slippery going. She almost fell twice – would have fallen, without Jamie holding her upright. The river bed felt thick and slimy beneath her feet, and the current tugged at her, threatening to pull her away downstream.

At last the water grew shallower. They waded and then scrambled up the muddy bank. She fell to her knees and crawled the last few feet, taking two handfuls of tough grass and pulling herself up onto dry ground, where she knelt, shivering, till Jamie urged her to her feet. 

She stood, shaking, half in Jamie’s arms, and turned to look back across the river. There was no time to seek cover. It slipped between the trees, a pale, wispy thing, glowing faintly blue. Its eyes, faceted like an insect’s, swung this way and that, rolling and flickering in their sockets.

It saw them. There was no mistaking it. Its jewelled eyes fixed upon them, and stared, and stared. Jamie pulled her closer. She could hear him breathing, feel her own heart thrumming in her chest.

It would go for them, any second. Just when she was sure it would go for them, its fanged mouth bent into a sneer, and it turned away. It turned, and it ran away along the river bank, taking its unearthly blue glow with it.

Beside her, she heard Jamie breathe out, sighing in relief and murmrring _thank the Lord_.

“What _was_ that?” Zoe whispered. She didn’t dare speak up, terrified as she was that it would come back any moment.

“The river,” Jamie said, sounding slightly dazed. “It cannae cross the river.”

“ _What_?” said Zoe, befuddled. 

Jamie’s arm slipped off her shoulders. He stepped away, rubbing a hand over his face, wiping sweat and river-water out of his eyes. “Running water.” He glanced at her. The beam of his torch was already flicking erratically over the bushes, searching out a way forward. “It’s what they say about the Fair Folk. In stories.”

“The Fair Folk?” Zoe repeated, incredulous. It took her a second or two to dredge it up from her memory. “You mean fairies?” She didn’t mean it to sound quite so disbelieving. After the day she’d had, she was inclined to be open-minded.

“It worked, didn’t it?” said Jamie. He shone his torch across the river, as if to demonstrate that the opposite bank was still empty.

“How did you know?” said Zoe.

“Eh?”

“How did you know it would work?”

Best as she could tell in the low light, Jamie looked lost for words. “Call it a hunch?”

A hunch; she wasn’t usually inclined to trust hunches, or she hadn’t been before she met Jamie and the Doctor. She nodded to herself. “In stories,” she asked, “can they cross bridges?” She’d got a look at a map of the area earlier. The nearest bridge was only four or five miles upstream.

Jamie hesitated. “Depends who’s telling it.”

They exchanged an anxious look. “We should move,” said Zoe.

“Aye.” He took her by the wrist, and they ran on into the darkness.

 

_5\. How to dance a Waltz._

The dancers drifted back and forth in elegant lines to the sweetly trilling music, the men in black, the women in various shades of pastel pink and blue. It was such a sombre, serious affair, everyone taking the same steps, back and forth, round and round in tight circles, over and over.

Zoe stood off to the side, trying to be inconspicuous. It was odd, but she almost felt more on edge than she would in a room full of Cybermen or Ice Warriors. Her day had been uncharacteristically quiet and she knew it wouldn’t last. The Doctor would give away that he wasn’t actually so-and-so’s wife’s uncle’s old school chum and tennis partner and there’d be all sorts of awkward questions concerning who they were and how they’d come to be wandering the grounds – or more likely, _she’d_ give him away. There were so many rules in a place like this, governing how you were meant to dance and talk to each other and who could start a conversation with who and what pleasantries you were expected to exchange before hand. The Doctor knew exactly what he was doing – he always did – and Jamie was muddling along by virtue of natural easy confidence. Zoe was still trying to work out how to stand up and sit down in her borrowed dress, let alone talk to anyone, and she could feel people starting to look askance at her.

The music ended. She joined in the gentle applause, watching the dancers begin to disperse, forming into new rows for the next dance. There was a light touch on her elbow. It was Jamie, appeared out of thin air beside her. “They’ve got these wee cakes that taste like roses,” he said. “You should – hey, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, really,” said Zoe. “Just at a bit of a loose end. Where’s the Doctor?”

Jamie shrugged. “You’re not dancing?”

“I don’t know any of the steps,” Zoe admitted.

Jamie peered down to the end of the hall, where the next song was just starting, and cocked his head for a moment, listening. Then he seemed to shrug and took her hand. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

“I’m really not much of a dancer,” she said as he hurried her out onto the dance floor, the other dancers making a space for them.

“Och, it’s a waltz,” said Jamie. “Any idiot can waltz.”

“Even you?” said Zoe as they sidled between two couples.

“Eh?”

“You know,” Zoe said, “sometimes I really can’t tell if you’re faking.”

“Faking what?” 

She looked at his face and found it inscrutable. “Oh, never mind.”

“Aye, never mind.” They’d reached their position. He clasped her hand more firmly and raised it up level with his shoulder, mimicking the other dancers. “Put your hand on my waist.”

“Do I have to?”

“Well, I’m leading,” he said, taking her hand and planting it firmly upon his waist.

Zoe blinked. “Why are you leading?”

“Because I’m the man,” said Jamie as if it was obvious. 

“That’s not fair at all.”

Jamie conceded, or at least reconsidered. “Because I know the steps?”

“That’s alright, I suppose.” Jamie’s free hand rested on her shoulder. “What do I do now?”

“It’s easy,” said Jamie. “You step back when I step forward, and so on. Then you just – count to three.” He took a step forward. Zoe stumbled. “And don’t step on me feet!”

“Sorry,” said Zoe, bashful. There followed an awkward few minutes as Jamie dragged her about, a bemused expression on his face, while she clung on and did her best not to tread on him again – or bump into any of the other dancers. “Oops! Sorry!” she said to another couple who glowered at her sternly. “Sorry,” she repeated meekly.

“Stop looking at your feet. It’s bad form,” said Jamie.

“Do you _want_ to get stepped on?” But she raised her head. She was starting to get the hang of it. She was an exceptionally quick learner, after all. _One_ , two, three, _one_ , two, three, and you were back where you started. It really was quite simple. “This isn’t so hard.”

“Told you,” said Jamie with a smirk. They danced in silence a moment longer – _one_ , two, three – till Zoe felt confident enough to start a conversation.

“How do you know how to do this, anyway?” 

“Hmm? Why shouldn’t I?”

“It just doesn’t seem like your sort of thing,” Zoe said.

“Oh, aye. Are you saying I’m not classy?”

“No, not really,” said Zoe. “It’s just it’s very English, isn’t it?”

“Oh, aye,” said Jamie. Suddenly a touch bashful, he went on. “Victoria taught me.”

“Really?” said Zoe. “At a dance like this one?” The image of Jamie fumbling over the steps in front of a crowd like this cheered her greatly.

“No, she just thought I ought to know how,” said Jamie. “Something about bein’ more of a gentleman.”

“So you just used to,” Zoe pictured it, “waltz around in the TARDIS?”

“Well, it was just the one time,” said Jamie. “It’s no’ the sort of thing you forget, though.”

He sounded so wistful. Zoe knew it wasn’t fair, but she didn’t like being reminded of how much Jamie missed Victoria. Even after all this time it still made her feel like some sort of interloper. She was about to change the subject when Jamie said, “oh-oh, here we go,” and turned her. Zoe stumbled, doing her best to mimic the other ladies in their graceful revolutions. “Sorry,” he said as they came back together. “Y’know, I think you’ve got this. Do you want to find a better partner?”

“This is fine,” said Zoe without really thinking. She saw Jamie’s lips quirk in amusement, and very deliberately trod on his toe.

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” she said sweetly. “Clumsy me.”

“Mibbe _I’ll_ find a better partner,” he said. 

“Good luck,” said Zoe. “You’ll need it. They think you’re –” What was the word they’d used? “– uncouth.”

Jamie snorted. “Uncouth?”

“I overheard two of the ladies talking,” said Zoe. “They do like your kilt, though.”

“Aye, well that’s alright, then,” said Jamie. 

Zoe had a question on the tip of her tongue, to do with Victoria and waltzing and things that were probably none of her business, so it was just as well that, with a final flourish, the dance finished. They stepped back, joining in the polite applause.

“That wasn’t so bad,” said Zoe. “You’re a better teacher than I expected.”

“Thanks,” said Jamie, his eyes on the musicians. He looked at her sharply, evidently only just processing what she’d said. “What’s that supposed to – och, never mind.”

The dancers were re-configuring around them as the next song started up – by the sound of it, something with a completely different rhythm. “Do you know this one?” said Zoe.

“Not a clue.” He took her by the elbow. “C’mon, let’s get out of the way. Fancy some cake?”

“I could do,” said Zoe.

But they’d only just made it to the refreshments table when there came a horrible caterwauling. The music stopped with a screech, leaving a befuddled silence into which a young maid cried, “oh, oh! It’s Mister Sackcroft! He’s been murdered!” before bursting into hysterical tears.

Jamie and Zoe exchanged a glance and, as one, trooped across the room. “I was looking forward to cake,” Zoe muttered.

“Show some respect. There’s been a death,” he muttered back. They pushed through the building crowd to the maidservant, where, to Zoe’s total lack of surprise, the Doctor was waiting, a steadying hand on the poor girl’s elbow.

“Now, if you can,” he was saying, “tell me everything.”

 

_6\. The benefits of physical contact (and how not to say good-bye)._

Zoe was not used to touchy-feely people. Growing up when she did, how she did, excessive physical contact hadn’t exactly been encouraged. Neither had it been especially discouraged. There was no rule against it. It wasn’t like running or shouting or talking during lessons. But children in the elite program were gently and carefully steered away from forming close bonds with one another. They were taught to regard each other as colleagues, on equal footing, so as to better prepare them for the lives they would one day lead. They didn’t really have friends, as such. They didn’t play the sort of games that might require them to touch. Outside of self defence classes, she had to stretch even her formidable memory to call to mind any instances of physical contact. Even handshakes were regarded with a sort of mild disdain – an archaic manner of greeting, not to mention unhygienic. Who knew where that hand had been? Best avoided.

It hadn’t taken her long at all to realise that Jamie felt differently – one day, she vowed, she would bet him that he couldn’t go a day without touching the Doctor, and win – but she hadn’t expected him to extend his touchy-feely tendencies to her, or at least not so quickly. Within two or three days of meeting her, he took to grabbing hold of her without warning at the first sign of danger. At first she thought it was a ham-fisted and pointless attempt at reassuring her, but after the first half a dozen or so times she began to wonder if it was more for his own comfort. She conjectured that it was what he did when he didn’t want to admit to being frightened. 

At some point she gave up trying to psychoanalyse him, partly because it wasn’t her area of expertise and partly because she came to realise that it wasn’t very nice to psychoanalyse your friends.

Besides, every now and again, she found she needed it. Once, four or five months after the Wheel, the TARDIS landed on a deserted space station – abandoned, best as they could infer from the state of the bunk rooms, at a moment’s notice. They wandered up and down corridors, opening doors almost at random, trying to work out where everyone might have gone.

“This is giving me the shivers,” Zoe said, poking her head into a darkened supply closet.

“Aye, me too,” said Jamie, a way up the corridor. “Feels haunted.” He said things like that sometimes. She was never sure if he meant it literally or was engaging in some uncharacteristically flowery language.

Zoe closed the supply closet and opened the next door, musing to herself on ghost ships. “Have you ever heard of the Mary Celeste?”

“Aye, the Doctor told me about that,” said Jamie. “He says he –” The whoosh of a pressurised door opening. She heard a sharp intake of breath. “Och, hell.” He was staring, wide-eyed, into the room he had opened. Zoe trotted up the corridor towards him.

“What is it?”

Jamie slid the door closed and positioned himself before it. “Mibbe don’t look in there.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. He was doing it again, treating her like some delicate flower – treating her the way he’d treat Victoria, most likely. She reached for the handle. His arm blocked her way. “Don’t,” he pleaded – and had she known him a little better she’d have known from his expression that he really meant it, that he regretted looking himself. But she didn’t know him better. She shoved him aside, and hauled the door open, and stared. And stared.

In the room beyond – not a bunkroom, maybe a kitchen or a break room, she registered hazily – in the room beyond was the crew of the space station. The entire crew, maybe forty or fifty people – the remains of forty or fifty people, methodically and bloodily pulled apart. The pressurised environment of the space station had preserved the scene like a fly caught in amber.

She felt Jamie’s hand upon her shoulder, tugging at the fabric of her jacket, and turned mutely into his touch. She pressed her face into his chest, his arm looping around her shoulders, holding her there. She could hear his heart beating. He was still looking. He had a stronger stomach than she did. She knew that already.

At length, she said, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Aye,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. She really couldn’t say if it was for her reassurance or his.

Sometimes she did need comforting, and she could make sense of that, touching for comfort. What took her slightly longer to make sense of was the touching that didn’t seem to have any purpose at all. Casual nudges, a hand fleetingly on her shoulder or her arm while they were talking, a guiding hand on her back when they were walking somewhere new. What she concluded, in the end, was that he was saying _here I am, I exist_ , or possibly _do you exist?_ She could see the logic in that. There was a certain concreteness to touch that you couldn’t get with your other senses. 

Even if it sometimes took her offguard. They were in a scientific outpost, waiting with their hearts in their mouths for the Doctor to radio in. When at last his voice crackled over the radio – “Jamie? Zoe? Do you read me?” – she was so relieved she could barely answer.

“Doctor?” she said, breathless, into the receiver. “You made it?”

“Of course I did,” he said, a touch put out. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yes, we’ll –” The rest of her sentence was cut off by an indignant yelp, for Jamie wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her with such enthusiasm that he lifted her right off the floor. “Hey!” she said, kicking her feet. “Jamie! Put me down! _Jamie_!”

“Sorry,” he said, half laughing. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.” He lowered her to the floor. 

“Everything alright?” the Doctor said, his voice half-submerged in interference.

“Yes,” Zoe called in the direction of the receiver. “Jamie was compelled to pick me up. That’s all.” She heard the Doctor laugh – or she assumed he was laughing, it was hard to tell – and with a last good-bye, the radio clicked off.

“Sorry,” Jamie said again, sounding more than a touch bashful.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind,” said Zoe. She really didn’t. She’d been startled, that was all.

“Och, well in that case,” he said – and he flung his arms around her and lifted her again, this time spinning her about. She squealed and she squirmed, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged back. There was something simultaneously delightful and alarming about the ease with which he could lift her off the ground. She held on tight, and then dropped lightly back to earth.

After a while, she began to feel almost jealous of the ease with which Jamie touched other people. But she also began to realise that he used it as a substitute for actually talking.

She’d ask him, for instance, if he missed Victoria, and he’d crack a joke about things being quieter with her gone – but Zoe could tell from the way he clung to her that he did, and that he regretted letting go. She’d ask him if he ever got homesick, and he’d shrug, but she could see in his eyes that he did. Outloud he’d tease the Doctor and complain about his off-kilter navigation and his tendency for reticence, and with his touches he’d say _I care for you_ or maybe even _I love you_. He wasn’t very good at talking about his feelings – but then again, neither was she.

When they parted ways with the Doctor – to rephrase: when they were separated from the Doctor (so suddenly, without any time to prepare themselves for what was coming), he said good-bye to the Doctor with a handshake, and it didn’t seem right to her. They held hands as they walked away, as the Doctor waved them off so gently, trying to soften the blow.

Before she’d even begun to pull herself together, she found she had to say good-bye to Jamie. She hadn’t thought of that. She’d been so lost at the thought of losing the Doctor that she hadn’t registered that she was losing Jamie too.

She looked at him, and knew with grim certainty that she was never going to see him again. She didn’t know how she knew; she just did. She drank him in, memorising every detail of this last sight of him the way she hadn’t been able to bring herself to memorise the Doctor.

“I’ll see you,” he said, and words must have failed him. Maybe he just then realised what she had, that he wasn’t going to see her, not ever. He always was slower than her. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Yes,” Zoe agreed. She wanted, badly, to hug him good-bye, but she didn’t know how. He always made it look so easy. Then she said, “Jamie –” at the same moment as he said, “well – ” and they both fell silent.

A hand closed on her upper arm. Not Jamie’s hand. A guard’s hand, cool and impersonal, ready to lead her away to her fate. “Good-bye,” she said, desperate to say it before it was too late.

“Good-bye,” he said – and to her bafflement he took her hand and kissed it, like she was a lady. She stared at him, and kept staring at him over her shoulder as she was led away. The spot on her knuckles where he’d kissed her – barely even a kiss, his lips had just grazed her skin – tingled.

It still tingled when she stood upon the deck of the wheel. She rubbed at it absently, as if it was an itch, and she turned her mind to other things.


End file.
